


Rather Than Nothing

by peridium



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s11e09 O Brother Where Art Thou, M/M, So tread carefully, a lot of Dean thinking about the Amara kiss, and the compulsion/coercion/lack of consent therein, but it's a character study that's very heavy on the Dean/Cas, otherwise this is basically a character study complete with total lack of action
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 02:46:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5399987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peridium/pseuds/peridium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s Amara, who’s a beautiful nothing. And then there’s Cas, gorgeous and so damn much that he makes Dean feel every single nerve ending in his body. Around him, Dean gets hyperaware, hears his heart beating in his eardrums and wants to touch Cas’ wrists and neck to check that they’re beating in the same rhythm.</p><p>“I’m on my way,” Cas promises. (11.09 coda.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rather Than Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> OH MY GOD THIS WAS SUCH A DIFFICULT EPISODE TO CODA. Add that to Buckner and Ross-Leming's unreasonably lengthy list of sins, okay?
> 
> As I said in my tags, this contains a lot of Dean thinking about Amara kissing him and the way that she coerced/compelled him and his fear while it was happening. Take care of yourselves, please.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr at [sunbeamdean](http://sunbeamdean.tumblr.com).

Dean can’t stop touching his lips.

He doesn’t notice he’s doing it at first. He’s been kind of busy losing his goddamn mind, tearing apart the bunker and dialing every number he can think of. Sam’s goes right to voicemail on the second try and the twenty-second alike. Cas’ rings a couple times, then beeps at him—why the fuck didn’t they get him an international plan, _why_ did he have to pick this week of all stupid weeks to go researching in Yemen. Crowley, naturally, just doesn’t pick up.

Then, when he’s panting for breath and he’s out of options other than staring helplessly at the blinking _low battery_ indicator on his phone, he thinks to wonder why his mouth is so dry. Why his thumb keeps sweeping across the curve of his own lower lip.

He feels a little sick. It’s a distant feeling, like he’s standing a couple feet to the left of himself and watching the space where the Mark used to be as it throbs.

He tries calling Cas again. This time he gets through to voicemail and he listens to it, all the way through the _Yes, this is, uh, Castiel. You’re probably Dean or Sam. Leave a message._

“Pick up your fucking phone.”

Dean had hated saying goodbye to Cas almost as much as he’d hated agreeing to drag him into this losing fight in the first place. It was just gonna be for a week—less than, six days—but all kinds of shit can go down in a week. Case in incredibly shitty point. Cas and Sam had been insistent on the importance of research, but Dean had been so scared. Terrified. _Right again, Winchester._

They’d been creeping closer to each other, weird fits and starts. Dean didn’t like to think about it head-on; he’s always figured the more directly you acknowledge something good, the likelier it is to go away and leave you out in the cold. But there’s no other way to put it, the way he and Cas had been starting to encroach on each other’s space.

Cas had spent that last night in Dean’s bed. Neither of them slept and they didn’t touch. Not on purpose, anyway. But they didn’t avoid it. Dean didn’t tuck in on himself and will his stomach to stop doing those tiny flips every time Cas’ ankle brushed his shin, whenever Cas’ face was close enough that Dean could feel the damp heat of his breath.

It had been good. Dean’s chest had felt full, burdened with something heavy but worthwhile.

He licks his lips again and wipes away the spit with his knuckles.

Amara’s not wrong. Well, okay, she’s wrong about a lot of things, but she’s not completely wrong about Dean. He hates that she’s right, but he does feel it, some kind of weird pull to her. It burns ugly and shameful in the pit of his stomach and, in his dreams, coiling around his right arm from the elbow right on up.

He could fall into her orbit and let himself get swallowed up. Sometimes it sounds like it’d be nice. Not being Dean Winchester anymore. Everything empty and dark. The way his insides had been wiped clean of conscience and guilt when he had black eyes, only more. Only forever.

Dean’s drawn to the nothingness of Amara. The promise of it pins him when she looks at him, turning him into a deer in the headlights like nothing else he’s ever encountered.

Add that to the list of things that terrify him. It’d risen in the back of his throat as her mouth moved against his, terror clawing its way through the numbness and making him gag, push her away, step back so fast he came close to stumbling and ruining his cool even more.

Hands shaking, Dean dials Cas one more time. “Please,” he hisses under his breath, “please, come on. Jesus. I need you.” 

“Dean,” Cas’ voice crackles.

Dean’s knees almost buckle. “I need you,” he says one more time. Even studiously avoiding really thinking can’t make him forget the way time passes in Hell, how long Sam could have already been there, the way he could be soaking in an icy emptiness of his own. Should’ve known the two of them would end up like this. Go figure.

“Yes,” Cas says. “I’m—I wish I could fly to you.”

This is the fucking thing. Cas doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Cas doesn’t threaten or cajole or needle, he just says _yeah, okay, what do you need_. Dean swallows hard and pushes back the prickling starting in the corners of his eyes. He’s still in his suit, and he likes this suit, but it’s too tight, too hot, too much. He yanks at the tie with enough frustrated force that he almost chokes himself before it comes loose.

“Not your fault. Just do whatever you can.”

There’s Amara, who’s a beautiful nothing. And then there’s Cas, gorgeous and so damn much that he makes Dean feel every single nerve ending in his body. Around him, Dean gets hyperaware, hears his heart beating in his eardrums and wants to touch Cas’ wrists and neck to check that they’re beating in the same rhythm.

“I’m on my way,” Cas promises.

“Shit,” Dean says, and then, “thank you. Hurry.”

They kissed before Cas left this time. That’s just one more thing Dean’s not thinking about because he’s positive it’ll scatter and turn into a daydream instead of a memory. It was early and Dean’s room was dark and his breath was bad and Cas had slung his arm around Dean’s middle and leaned in.

Dean had lifted his face, tipped his chin up. And Cas, so full and storied and old that he could quote _Master of None_ as easy as he could recite whole passages from the Bible, had fit their half-open mouths together.

Dean wants more of that. He wants it and he wants the wholeness that comes with reveling in wanting something.

His fingertips, tracing the shape of his own mouth again, taste like salt and the detached tang of metal. Not blood, but he’s tasted that on his hands often enough. Amara hadn’t tasted like anything. Not even the normal faint taste of a human mouth—just absence.

Cas is gonna be here soon. They’ll get Sam out and they’ll take care of him. Dean is gonna be scared shitless the whole time. And he’s gonna let that keep him from the Darkness. He’s gonna use that to make sure he kisses Cas first next time.

For years, he’s nursed the wide open space between himself and Cas. He’s held onto the emptiness there and let it soothe him.

When Cas gets home, Dean resolves, he's going to be ready. For everything.


End file.
